Claire Delacroix (41 page)

“The king could make another and grant it where he would.”

“Merlyn and I have written to him, telling him of the treachery of the MacLaren clan and informing him that you are beneath the care of the Lammergeier. We wrote that you will bear your child in exile, then return. Merlyn believes the king will heed our counsel, for he has enough woes in his court.”

“You guessed my intent,” I whispered with pleasure.

Gawain smiled as he closed my fingers over the familiar seal. “Consider this a gift from father to son, that his legacy might be complete.” Our gazes locked for a dizzying moment, then Gawain pushed to his feet.

“You have no need, Evangeline, to seal our wager or secure your safety with what you can offer abed.” He turned and left me there, fingering the seal, distressed that there was yet a wall betwixt us and no way to remove it when he refused my overtures.

* * *

Our journey south was long but fascinating. I was glad beyond belief that I was not ill with my pregnancy, nor made ill by the sea, for once I managed to leave my bed, I could not see enough of the marvels of the world. I stood at the rail when the weather was fair, transfixed by the endless coasts unfurling before me.

I meant to make the most of this year’s respite.

Indeed, I had never imagined that the world was so very large, nor that there were so many souls within it. Gawain was indulgent of me, putting into port whenever I saw something that fascinated me, or we came to a town of which I had heard.

We paused at the Templar docks at LeHavre, so large and bustling a port that I turned and twisted like the country girl that I was. The streets echoed with the sounds of a thousand languages, languages that I had never guessed existed. I found it exciting that the world was bigger and more varied than I had known and a lust to explore all of it lit within me.

We halted again at Saint James de Compostela and attended a mass at the cathedral there, its golden altar bright enough to blind the faithful. The devout gathered there had come from all corners of Christendom and the assembly was nigh as fascinating as the building itself. I crawled on my knees to mass with the others, I prayed with equal fervor and I wept in that golden shrine at the miracle of the host.

I ate olives for the first time there, sipped wine as red as rubies, tasted oranges and lemons and almonds and glorious foods of which I cannot even recall the names. Gawain bought me a pilgrim’s lead cockleshell, evidence that I had been to this great shrine, and offered it to me with a sly smile.

“A genuine relic?” I teased.

He laughed aloud, the first time I had heard his laughter in weeks. “A cheap trinket, sold for many times its value,” he said. “But a token of a momentous journey, all the same.”

We then sailed around the coast of Spain. I shall never forget my first glimpse of the marvelous blue hue of the Mediterranean. I felt that I had been viewing the world from behind a veil and only its removal had revealed the bright hues before me. The sun was just as Gawain had foretold, warm enough to drive the memory of winter from my very bones. Shades of gold and red and blue unknown at Inverfyre sparkled on all sides, shades never seen at beloved Inverfyre with its thousands of greens and grays and blues.

Through it all, Gawain was courteous and gallant but distant. He never came to my bed, though he was most solicitous on those rare occasions when the babe made me ill.

I told myself to be content that Gawain shared what he knew of the world with me. He was always ready to explain some marvel, or to tell me what he knew of any place, or to buy an exotic fruit for me. Our pace was leisurely, a concession to my curiosity, and I loved him all the more for so adeptly understanding that what I desired most was time.

I watched him in my turn, noting how his swagger gained its former confidence. I watched him turn his charm and skills to win better terms in legitimate trade, caught more than one triumphant wink when he left a stall. He feigned horror at a price with such believability that the price was oft lowered on the spot. The merchants enjoyed him, the bartering they made was akin to a game. I watched Gawain awaken to the gift his brother had given him, and saw him accustom himself to it.

Indeed, I saw him learn to revel in it and I knew that Merlyn had spoken aright - Gawain would excel at this trade in silks.

I was glad that he had found his place, even as I knew I would return all too soon, alone, to my own. The prospect was less tempting than I knew it should be. I could have persuaded myself to forget Inverfyre, but not for the company of a man who had no care for me.

Indeed, I then could find myself discarded by my lover in a strange land, with no friends or family to aid me and a child suckling at my breast. It was the very prospect I had feared and I would not choose it willingly, foolishly.

No, never such a fate for Evangeline of Inverfyre. I had told Gawain of my love and he had refused it and its import. One year only would I linger in his company.

Though my heart would break, I knew, on the day we parted forevermore, I also knew that I had no choice.

Those of the line of Magnus Armstrong do not beg.

* * *

XXII

We reached Palermo on the north coast of Sicily some three months after we departed Ravensmuir. I was round with child, ripe with my lord’s seed, and losing confidence in my footing. Thus, I was anxious to feel the earth beneath my soles again, though Gawain rowed off alone, with nary an explanation. He bade us only to remain aboard and wait.

I followed his bidding, if impatiently.

Three days later, Gawain returned to the ship with a dozen men who set to moving ashore every trinket I had bought or brought. He said nothing in explanation, so I knew there was some matter of import bearing upon his thoughts. Indeed, I sensed a test afore me though I did not know its form. He took my hand and led me through the crooked streets of Palermo, behind the agile porters. He offered to fetch me a donkey, but I wanted to walk again.

The road inclined slightly, hills and cypress trees on every side ahead. When I paused for breath, I glanced back at the blue of the sea cradled in the arms of the harbor.

“It is beautiful here,” I said and Gawain smiled slightly, politely.

We passed a cathedral, the darkness of its interior pierced by candlelight. The streets smelled of cooking, of lamb over the spit, of bubbling stews, of ripe fruit and wine. Though the cobblestones underfoot were warm enough for their heat to be felt through my slippers and the sun shone warmly on my back, I heard the trickle of fountains and glimpsed lush gardens behind walls and gates. I had the sense that a thousand paradises lurked just out of view.

I was enchanted.

Eventually, we climbed beyond the city walls and passed through a green space. Gawain said it had been a hunting park reserved for royalty. It was wilder here and quiet. I was more at ease amidst a forest not unlike the forests I had known all my life at Inverfyre. Cities intrigued me but I found them overwhelming. Though I enjoyed their charms, I knew I was not destined to live within their walls.

I like to hear the wind.

We strolled through the forest to the calls of distant birds and the rustle of leaves. I could have walked forever in that dappled sunlight, but soon I saw a building ahead, perhaps a small palace. The men halted at Gawain’s signal, even Tarsuinn and Malachy and Anna waiting while we entered.

Gawain and I passed through a fortified gate in the wall that surrounded the building and skirted a pond of breathtakingly deep blue. Golden fish flickered in the water’s depths, and the fruit trees surrounding it were reflected in it still surface.

I halted to stare at the trees, for they bore not only round green fruit, but round fruit ripened to a reddish orange hue. Creamy white blossoms adorned the trees as well, and the air was redolent of their sweet perfume.

“Orange trees,” I guessed, turning to Gawain with pleasure.

His smile broadened. “And so you see, they do indeed exist.”

I laughed, marveling that they were precisely as he had told me.

The walls were wrought of reddish stone, or perhaps stone painted red, and their hue was reflected in the surrounding pond as well. The walls were thick beyond belief, but when we passed through the portal, the air within was delightfully cool.

The entry was in the side farthest from the harbor, around the back, which seemed humble until we entered the hall. Then I halted, stunned by the view spread before me. The hall was as large as the house itself and open entirely to the harbor side. The view of the sea and city below was framed perfectly by the arches of the house, the red of the cathedral visible, the gold of the town, the vivid blue of the sea.

The hall itself was paved with marble, and empty save for two staircases that wound their way upwards at the back. In the midst of the hall was a fountain, the water bubbling from the north wall. The fountain split in the room in two, the water dancing and chortling as it fell over steps in a great runnel and finally spilled into the pond before the house. The runnel was lined with tiles painted white and yellow and blue in fanciful designs that shimmered beneath the water.

I turned to him, letting him see that I had guessed where we had come. I knew, too, why we were alone. My reaction was of import to him. This was the test I had anticipated. Gawain showed me the secrets of his heart anew, as he had the first night we met and he had spoken of this place.

I smiled, to show him he had nothing to fear. “The house you yearned for?”

“It is, as of this day.” Gawain inclined his head slightly and could not help a quick glance of pleasure over his prize. I looked again, fiercely glad that he had won the objective he sought, that he had done so without the
Titulus
. That relic reposed in my trunk along with the seal of Inverfyre, broken but in agreed trust for our son.

The walls were tiled in mosaics, as well, with a curious border running around the entire room. It might have been adorned with script, but I could not read it. At my inquiring glance, Gawain lifted a finger to one corner.

“It is Arabic, the language of the Moors, and it is read from here.”

“What does it say?”

“`This is paradise on earth’,” Gawain read, progressing from right to left. “`Here dwells he who desires glory and this is the `Aziz.’”

“The `Aziz?”

“It means magnificent or noble palace. All in Palermo call this place ‘la Zisa’. It was the summer palace built by the Norman kings, who retired from the city in the summer months.”

“To hunt,” I guessed, knowing the ways of monarchs well.

Gawain nodded. “It had fallen into disrepair but was recently fortified by the Chiaramonte family.”

“It looks empty.”

“They decided that it was not suitable to them after all. They like the sounds of the city.”

“And they agreed to sell it to you.”

He shrugged. “My mother was kin. Merlyn and I spent some time here as children and he has traded much over the years with the Chiaramontes. I have felt welcomed here in my life, accepted for both what and who I am.”

“It is your home.” At Gawain’s nod, I bowed my head. “I accused you once of not knowing what a home was, but I was wrong. I am sorry.”

Gawain narrowed his eyes and surveyed the view of the city spread before us. “Sicily is not a place that many would find welcoming,” he said with care. “It is a place where passions run high and people are volatile. The people are not above rebellion or violence to ensure their voices are heard. It suits me well to be slightly outside the turmoil that can seize the city, but close enough to see and to hear its vitality.”

I smiled to myself. “No doubt you would argue that their passion is honest.”

“I would. No wound can fester here, no secret grows in darkness unobserved. No soul is afraid to utter what is in their hearts, nor to partake of the joys life offers to us all. It suits me here, suits me better than any other place I have been. I like to know where I stand in the hearts and thoughts of those surrounding me.”

I stared into the vivid green of his eyes and understood that only in a place of such forthrightness could Gawain Lammergeier feel at home. There was a question in his gaze, as well, a query as to whether I could accept this place along with his affection for it. I understood now why he had been wary, for he had wanted to see my reaction to the house he so desired.

I thought it marvelous and exotic, though alien to me in a way I could not explain. I removed my slippers and let the cold of the floor claim my feet. I moved to the fountain, aware of Gawain’s watchful gaze, and dipped my hands in its delightful coolness. I glanced up at the aperture through which the water flowed into the house and a polite query about its origin froze upon my lips.

The opening was surrounded by a tiled mosaic depicting a falcon, the spout of water spilling from its mouth, its wings spread high behind it.

“Frederick II hunted here,” Gawain said softly. “And is said to have written his treatise about falconry here. We can visit his old mews, if you so desire, though they are ruined as yet.”